Persistence of Gratitude
by Blackletter
Summary: Young Lance-Constable Sam Vimes earns the gratitude of a fellow citizen. (Mostly Gen, but it could be VimesVetinari preslash if your mind works that way...)


Title: Persistence of Gratitude Author: Blackletter Rating: PG-13 (for violence and threatened violence) Summary: Young Lance-Constable Sam Vimes earns the gratitude of a fellow citizen. Notes: Takes place directly after the climatic skirmish in Night Watch. Mostly Gen. But it could be Vimes/Vetinari Pre-slash if you want to see it that way. (I do. But then, in my brain everything turns into slash.) It's also my theoretical explanation for why Vetinari is so forgiving of Vimes' defiance and why he's so willing to promote Vimes every time the opportunity presents itself.  
  
Havelock slipped away soon after the melee was over. It wouldn't do to have someone realise that no one knew him, not the soldiers, nor the watchmen, nor even any of the locals, and to start asking the inevitable question "Who are you?" followed by the equally overused "What are you doing here?".  
  
So Havelock lingered just long enough to pay silent homage to the body of the fallen Sergeant John Keel. He set the sprig of lilac on the body with a feeling of regret-for his failure at his appointed task, but also, surprisingly, for the life of Sergeant Keel cut short. He'd never met Keel, and under other circumstances may have killed the man himself, so it was strange to be left with this vague sense that Ankh-Morpork had lost something remarkable. But, unfortunate though Keel's death was, Havelock would not let it distract him. He noted with some curiosity that Keel looked different than before, as if death had been creeping over him for days, not minutes. Men changed in death. Vetinari knew this. Muscles shifted, skin turned pallid and slack. It was just one more peculiarity to add to the life and death of a very peculiar man. With his respects paid, he drifted to the edge of the crowd and away through a nearby alley.  
  
He scampered through the byways of Ankh-Morpork. All the streets near the skirmish had vacated as soon as the fighting had started; no one wanted to get accidentally caught in the middle. The area appeared quiet and deserted.  
  
Havelock would later curse his inattention. Another man might have tried to excuse such foolishness by pointing out that assassinating a Patrician and fighting in a revolt all within a forty-eight hour period with no sleep in between was a little tiring. But Havelock was not another man. He was, indeed, Havelock. And so his last conscious thought as the dull thwunk of something hard impacting his skull and reverberating in his ear was that he'd never let himself be caught off-guard so foolishly again.  
  
* * *  
  
Sergeant Keel was dead. Dead. The thought still didn't feel natural to Lance-Corporal Vimes. Never before had he seen someone he knew, someone he respected cut down before his eyes. And Keel had seemed so invincible, as if the concept of death just didn't apply to people like him. So seeing him lying on the cobbles, covered with lacerations and blood was an unreal experience. Other people were grim faced or crying, glad that it was over but lamenting the cost paid in lives. Vimes felt none of it. He felt just a vague sense of detachment from the world, as if it wasn't quite real, or maybe he wasn't quite real. One of the soldiers told him that he was in shock, and that it'd all hit him soon enough. Vimes didn't feel particularly shocked, just a little numb. And if "it" was going to hit him, he'd rather be pummeled sooner rather than later. Get it over with.  
  
When a volunteer was asked to discretely check out the area, and make sure that stragglers from Carcer's force weren't causing trouble for civilians, Vimes jumped at the opportunity. Anything to get away from the smell of blood and lilac.  
  
He proceeded as Sergeant Keel had taught him, glancing at each alley he passed and in that one brief look, taking in all there was to see. The streets were quiet and of Carcer's men, there was no sign. He was near the end of his loop, barely over a block away from where the melee had taken place, when he saw the thieves. Vimes ducked quickly back between the wall and a rain barrel, assessing the situation.  
  
There were three of them. Rough and scraggly looking types, not Carcer's men, but typical Ankh-Morpork Grade A petty crooks. Probably emboldened by all the recent chaos to ply their trade even in broad daylight. They were huddled over a fourth man, who was unconscious, sprawled across the dirty cobblestones. Vimes' first instinct was to leave. It was no business of his and he'd be best to Stay Out Of It. The voice of that instinct sounded vaguely like Fred Colon. His second instinct was to boldly leap out into the alley and take the thieves by surprise. They'd never know what hit 'em. Fortunately, his second instinct was silenced by his third and most sensible instinct, which pointed out to him that he was outnumbered three to one and the most prudent action was to watch and wait and if he were going to confront the thieves single-handedly, he'd better damn well have a plan. So Vimes watched and listened as the thieves muttered amongst themselves.  
  
"Those look t'me like good boots. What size d'you reckon they are?" the thief, not waiting for an answer yanked off one shiny black boot from the foot of the unconscious man and placed it sole to sole with his own shoe, comparing sizes.  
  
"Who said you get the boots? I say we hawk 'em and split the money. That'd be the only fair way to do it, unless he's got three boots," his comrade replied, rifling through their victim's clothes and unearthing a vicious looking knife. "Well, good thing you're fast with a knock, Slip. I'd hate to have one of these in me."  
  
Slip, the shoe aficionado set down the boot. "You'd better be bloody grateful, since I'd have been the one to get a slicing. In fact, I think I should get an extra bit of the share. For.wassit called.hazard expenses."  
  
"Hazard expenses my arse! I knocked the last one and I didn't get "hazard expenses".  
  
"The last one didn't carry a knife, Jostle," Slip replied. "The last one was a bloody seventy year old grandpa."  
  
"Shut up. Both of you. We're trying to make this quick."  
  
"Sure, Tweedy."  
  
"Sure, Tweedy."  
  
The three thieves silently went back to their thieving. Vimes glanced out towards the street, looking for any sign of his fellow watchmen. He saw no sign of them. They were close. Close enough that Vimes could be there in two minutes if he ran. He considered slipping off and fetching reinforcements, but by the time they returned, the thieves may be gone, vanished into the grime of the Shades. He couldn't leave them and let them escape, and he couldn't take them all on alone. So what options were left?  
  
"Aw, shit," the one called Tweedy rasped.  
  
"What? Whassa matter?" Slip asked.  
  
"Assassins' Guild." Tweedy lifted a slip of paper pilfered off the unconscious man, a guild card, in the air.  
  
"Aw, shit." Jostle echoed Tweedy's sentiments.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"They're gonna kill us for robbin' one of their own." Slip looking around nervously, as if expecting assassins to start dropping from the rooftops at any minute.  
  
"Aw, shit," Jostle repeated.  
  
Tweedy got that cunning look in his eye that Vimes recognised as bad news. "Not necessarily. Not if they don't know it's us. Not if he can't tell no one what happened."  
  
"How we gonna do that?"  
  
"Silence him for good."  
  
"What, you mean like, cut out his tongue?" Slip asked. Jostle nodded enthusiastically.  
  
"No, you idiot. That wouldn't do no good. He could still write everything what happened."  
  
"Oh. I see. So.we cut off his hands *and* his tongue. Is that it?"  
  
Tweedy glared at Slip. "And supposing he learns to write with his toes?"  
  
Slip's face fell. "Oh. I didn't think of that." He paused, screwing up his face in the effort of deep thought. "Well, then we can cut off his hands his tongue *and*--"  
  
"Or we could just kill him," Tweedy interrupted.  
  
"Kill him! Right. I never woulda thought of that."  
  
"I don't doubt it."  
  
Tweedy held out his hand to Jostle demandingly. Jostle started at in without any glimmer of comprehension in his countenance. Tweedy glared. "The knife."  
  
"Oh, right. Sure. Knife. Here ya go." Jostle handed the assassin's knife over.  
  
Sam came to the realisation that the time for waiting was over and he had to act now, with or without backup or a possibly mostly innocent man would die. Vimes waved goodbye to his self-preservation instinct and leap out from his hiding place with his crossbow drawn.  
  
"Freeze!"  
  
Remarkably enough, the thieves froze. Undoubtedly the same inborn trait that made certain people natural thieves also caused an automatic reaction of fright whenever someone spoke in the authoritative copper voice. Even if the someone speaking was scrawny little Sammy Vimes.  
  
"You're under arrest!"  
  
Sadly, that natural response thieves had toward coppers didn't last very long as the thieves in question saw that the coppers in question were in fact only one copper and a young and inexperienced one at that.  
  
"Who the hell are you, kid?"  
  
"Lance-Constable Sam Vimes, City Watch."  
  
There was a short pause. Then the three thieves simultaneously burst into laughter.  
  
"Aren't you a little old to be playing cops and robbers?" Tweedy sneered.  
  
"You're under arrest."  
  
"You plannin' on arresting us all by yourself? I got news for you, kid, your shiny little badge ain't impressing anyone here."  
  
Vimes "There's half a dozen watchmen right behind me. So surrender now and no one will get hurt."  
  
Slip and Jostle looked at Tweedy with fear written all over their face with a broad-nibbed pen. Tweedy's eyes narrowed and his gaze remained fixed on Sam.  
  
"He's bluffing."  
  
"How do you know?" Slip asked.  
  
"'Cause if he had a dozen watchmen with him, why'd he try to arrest us alone?"  
  
"What if he's not?" Jostle had the tensed look of a rat about to scurry away if only it knew which direction the cat was coming from.  
  
"Of course he's bluffing. That's what watchmen do in situations like this. They bluff their way out, 'cause the villains are too dense and cowardly- like to realize it's a bluff. That's the way these things always go. But we're smart, see? We know it's a bluff. So we won't go running, get it?"  
  
Slip and Jostle exchanged confused looks. "Er.okay." "Whatever you say."  
  
The three spread out across the alley and began to stalk towards Vimes. Sam was starting to regret his hasty action and wondered if perhaps he should have listened to Fred when he told Sammy that cowards have a longer lifespan. Sam bent his knees into a crouch, not quite certain if he was preparing to fight back or run away. In one last desperate hope, he threw a quick glance down the street, as if expecting a miracle to come save him.  
  
Sometimes, just sometimes, Luck really does smile.  
  
Tweedy lowered his stolen blade into the easy stance of an experienced knife fighter. Slip and Jostle drew their own knives, pitted and chipped with frequent use. Vimes calmly reached one hand to his belt where his sword was sheathed, and grasped instead the handle of his bell and yanked it out and wielded it before him with a flourish.  
  
"A bell? You're gonna fight us off with a bell?"  
  
"That's right." Sam started ringing the bell, sounding out with loud, brass tones.  
  
The thieves paused in their attack, baffled by their target's obvious insanity. The few second's pause was all the time needed for the approaching Watchmen to hear the alarm and come running around the corner.  
  
"Can't say I didn't warn you," Sam said.  
  
Slip and Jostle instantly turned and sprinted away down the twisting streets, Tweedy opened his mouth as if to get out one last retort, but in the end decided that freedom was more important than the satisfaction of having the last word, and he too dashed after his comrades with some half- dozen Watchmen in hot pursuit. Vimes was about to join the chase, when a firm hand fell on his shoulder, keeping him in place. Vimes turned to see the person who belonged to the hand, and saw one of the soldiers, a Sergeant his uniform indicated, reining him back.  
  
"There's already plenty of Watchmen chasing those crooks down. One more isn't gonna make much difference. Come help with the victim; we need to find out who he is and if he needs medical attention."  
  
The victim. In the heat of the confrontation, Vimes had forgotten all about the unconscious man who was still lying on the cobblestones. He scuttled over and knelt at his side. It wasn't pretty. But still, Vimes had seen much worse. It looked as though the thieves gave him one knock to put him to sleep and then a couple dozen more, just to make sure he wouldn't wake up. His face was a mess of bruises and his mouth was painted red with smeared blood.  
  
However, the man was breathing easily and nothing appeared broken. And already, his eyelashes were fluttering as if he were struggling to return to the waking world. The struggle didn't last long, and even as Vimes was checking the long limbs for any signs of breaks, pale eyes opened and focused (as well as concussion-glazed eyes could focus on anything) on Sam's face.  
  
"What happened?" he rasped.  
  
"Looks like you were ambushed. A couple of thieves were about to kill you. I jumped out and distracted them until backup came." Vimes felt strangely uncomfortable relating the details of the rescue.  
  
"You faced them alone? Outnumbered? That was either very brave or very foolish. Probably both."  
  
"I.guess."  
  
The young man weakly lifted one hand to Sam's face, lightly brushing his fingers against his cheek, sliding down to flutter against his mouth. His thin pale hand then drifted down to touch his own split and bloodstained lips.  
  
"My hero." The edges of his lips were tilted up in a mocking smile, but there was a shade of sincerity underneath the jibe.  
  
"How is he, Vimes?" the Sergeant called out from the other side of the alley where he was gathering up some of the stolen items that the thieves had abandoned in their flight.  
  
Sam jumped, startled at the interruption and an awkward second passed before he realised that he was just asked a question. "He's fine, sir. Well, not "fine" but he'll be alright. Should probably see a doctor to make sure, though."  
  
"I'll go find another few lads to come bring a stretcher. You keep an eye out around here." And without waiting for Sam's "yes, sir", the Sergeant whisked himself away.  
  
"Vimes?"  
  
Sam whirled back toward the dark haired young man, startled to hear his name called by an unfamiliar voice. The man was sitting up, though he still looked dizzy and was carefully brushing dirt off of some small square of paper before tucking it into a pocket.  
  
"I don't suppose you'd fetch my boots for me? They seem to be out of reach," he said in the lazy tones of someone who couldn't possibly imagine being told "no". For just that reason, Vimes was sorely tempted to say exactly that. However, the man was concussed and Vimes supposed that gave him some privilege.  
  
Vimes reaching over and retrieved the shoes, noting that they were indeed of fine quality. If the man was a criminal, he must be a very good one to afford boots like that. Sam watched him carefully as he put on his shoes, looking for any sign of criminal intent.  
  
"And my pouch? There's a good deal of money in it, and I'd hate to loose it."  
  
Vimes turned away again. "What am I, a bloody maid?" he muttered to himself as he fetched the pouch and brought it to its owner.  
  
"And a bit of water from the rain barrel, perhaps?"  
  
This time Vimes didn't try to hide his exasperated sigh as he turned to carry out yet other one of the incapacitated man's demands. The water in the barrel was rather scummy on the top and had a small colony of dead insects floating in it, but Vimes figured that if he splashed the worst of the scum to the edges and then scooped out the water, the man would never know.  
  
The water was cool to the touch, if a little slimy, and it took two tries before he was able to get a handful that was bug-free. He turned back towards the alley and froze before he even took a step. The water fell from his cupped hands with a splash, turning a little patch of dirty cobbles into muddy cobbles.  
  
The man who seconds ago claimed to be too injured to fetch his own boots was gone without a trace. 


End file.
